Safe on the Mountain

by Alexandria Thayer

  I realize Brock's hands are sliding off my waist, one lingering on my thigh. He seriously just lifted my big ass onto this horse. Something I can't exactly explain is so sexy about that.

  He lets his hand drop from my thigh. It’s not my favorite move, but I guess I can deal with it. Especially if I need to concentrate on not breaking my neck on this horse.

  Brock

  Callies eyes are as wide as I’ve ever seen them. She must actually be scared of horses. I thought that story about a friend breaking a leg was par for the course with horses, but Callie obviously was spooked.

  “You’re fine,” I smile, trying to keep her calm. “Just hold the saddle and keep your thighs snug around her. We’ll go slow.”

  Callie nods, not ready to speak. I take the reins and walk next to Daisy, guiding her in a slow circle around the corral. Still stiff and looking terrified, I give Callie’s calf a quick, encouraging squeeze.

  “It’s all good. Daisy is calm. Just relax and enjoy it,” I smile up at her. From down here, the sun is glowing behind her head. I can see the outline of hair, the tiny upturn of her nose, and the roundness of her lips. Callie is stunning.

  She gives me a half smile, white knuckling the edge of the saddle. I keep walking in circles with Daisy, who is unphased by any of this. Thank goodness for this old horse - I wouldn’t have been able to talk Callie onto any of the others.

  “You wanna take these?” I’m holding the reins up to her. She hesitates but takes them anyway. “Just guide her around the edge. She knows what to do.”

  Callie takes the straps, suddenly eyeing every place they’re attached to Daisy. This poor girl really is scared. I lean back into the railing and watch her go. The slow gait of the horse makes Callie’s hips dip up and down. Her sweater sways from the movement and wind and I can see a peek of her lower back showing above the swell of her ass. This woman might be the death of me.

  I’m feeling my dick get thicker in my jeans. What I would give to worship that round ass. Shit. I can’t let her see this boner. Especially after that kiss - or attempted kiss, I should say. I can’t make her scared of the horses and me all in the same day. I stare out into the field behind the corral, hoping that calms me down. But all I can imagine is taking Callie out into that thick grass, slowly peeling every layer of clothing off her, and tasting all the delicious parts of her body.

  Callie and Daisy are making the turn back to me now. I smile at her, before I realize I’m even doing it. I’ve spent so much time alone and avoiding my shit family that I forgot what a genuine smile feels like.

  She grins back, eyes alight.

  “It looks like you’re getting the hang of it.”

  “I think I am,” she announces, smiling proudly. She’s playing with Daisy’s mane and passes me by to make another round. I hop up onto the fence, seeing that this riding lesson could go longer now that Callie is feeling more sure.

  We stay like this for a while, me talking her through movements, Daisy following along, and Callie giggling and happy. I could definitely get used to this.

  Callie

  By the time Brock helps me off Daisy and I wake Cookie up, I feel my stomach growling. It’s the late afternoon, and while I could go home, work, and eat some frozen crap that’s been sitting in my freezer for weeks, I’m not sure I want to leave.

  I’m out in the grass, trying to talk Cookie into using the bathroom as Brock exits the stables. There’s a line of sweat on his forehead. His hand goes into his hair, pushing it back and off his face. I see a peek of his stomach under his shirt: tan, hard with a line of hair trailing down into his jeans. A moan almost escapes me. I’ll have to play it off as hunger if he hears.

  “Are you hungry? Because I could use some food.” Brock asks, gesturing towards his house. Is he offering to feed me?

  “Oh goodness, I don’t want you to go to any trouble. I’m not starving, so…”

  “It’s not a problem. I’ll be eating soon anyway, so you’re more than welcome to have some.” He’s moving towards a back door and motioning for me to come along.

  “Should Cookie go inside?” I know he’s a mountain man out in the wilderness, but he might have objections to a puppy running around his house.

  “She’s good. Bring her in.”

  -----

  Even though my first sight of the house is from the back entrance, it’s still breathtaking. The ceilings have got to be fifteen feet tall with huge wood beams crossing above us. There’s a long dining table, glossy and thick, in the middle of a giant room. One direction is the living room. It looks like a men’s club, with oversized leather seating and dark wood everywhere. To the other side of the dining table is the most gorgeous kitchen I’ve probably ever seen. It’s massive - an island in the center I could sleep on, an eight-burner chef’s range, and a refrigerator I could probably make into a tiny house.

  “This is amazing,” I finally stammer out. “Like really beautiful.”

  “Thanks. It’s been in the family for close to forty years. I got around to renovating it last year, so it’s almost a new house.” He’s being modest. This place could be in any architecture magazine if he wanted.

  “You did all this?” I’m astonished.

  “Yeah, most of it. A few things I got help on; electricity and some building code stuff. But otherwise, just me.”

  I’m strolling through the kitchen now, touching everything, already fantasizing about all the amazing food I could make here. Reel it in, Callie. This could be your one and only time in this house.

  “This kitchen is insane. Like a dream come true,” I get out, checking out the expansive pantry.

  “You like to cook?” He asks.

  “I love it. My mom and I cooked together all the time.” A flash of good and bad memories rush back at me. “But not so much lately.”

  “Why not?” He asks, leaning one hip against the counter and crossing his huge arms. I know it’s an innocent question, but it’s still something I don’t want to answer. I put on a brave face anyway. A brave voice, actually. I keep my back turned for insurance.

  “Well...my mom passed away about eight months ago. And I just haven’t felt up to it since.” I get out, digging my nails into my palm to keep from tearing up.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. That’s awful. I’m sorry I brought that up…” He trails off. I turn back towards him, forcing a smile.

  “No, it’s fine. Of course, you wouldn’t know,” I get out, rubbing Cookie’s soft ears between my fingers. It’s been my go-to soother, letting me focus on something besides the current stress.

  The silence draws on. I turn and keep inspecting the kitchen, checking out his surprisingly fancy french press.

  “So you are a coffee guy,” I joke, hoping to push past our quiet. I lift up one of the press filters, inspecting and admiring them.

  “When you get up at four every morning, you start to appreciate good coffee,” he chuckles.

  “Four in the morning? You can’t be serious!” I’m appalled. I can hardly get myself out of bed by nine, and that’s when I have work to do. “I’m usually still up at four working.”

  “That’s ranch life. I grew up doing it so that’s what I know.”

  “So your family does the horse stuff too?”

  “Well, sort of. My grandfather was the rancher. I stayed with him a lot growing up,” he explains. It seems like he doesn't enjoy talking about this judging by the tightness in his body now, but he goes on. “My dad didn’t like the outdoors-y life, so he went another direction. But I kept this all going.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s sweet of you to stick to the family work. What does your dad do?”

  His jaw clenches, but he pushes out an empty smile. “He got involved in some businesses in Denver, then he met my mom, and her family has a long line of politicians… so he’s in that world now.”

  “Oh. Do you wish he stuck with the ranching with you?”

  “No,” he puts out quickly. Clearly, there are strong feelings here.
“We get along better at a distance. It’s better this way.”

  I see that this is a subject I shouldn’t push anymore. I move Cookie to my other arm, shifting and nervous. I’m not sure where to go from here.

  “How about some food?” Brock asks me, suddenly chipper again.

  Thank goodness. I let out a little sigh - “Yes, please.”

  Brock

  As I’m wracking my brain to remember what food I have around here, Callie wonders into the living room. I can’t believe this woman is in my house.

  She looks natural here - like this is where she needs to be. At least, that’s what I want to believe. I didn’t spend months planning and designing this home for myself. The plan was to have something nice enough for a woman, not just my lonely existence.

  I realized a couple years back that I couldn’t be a loner in the mountains forever. After a lot of self-examination and not wanting admit that I needed someone else, I realized that a woman might be my best chance at not losing my mind on this mountain. And I don’t want any woman - just because she’s breathing and cute doesn’t mean she’ll do.

  I spent a few miserable weeks making the hour-long trip into Denver on the weekends, nursing beers at bars, hoping to find a female worth talking to. If my search was really lucky, she might be worth the effort to sleep with. A few tried to push themselves on me, either because they were drunk or just very forward. But I never took one home. I mostly didn’t want the job of driving her back to the city after an emotionless fuck, but also because none of them elicited any feeling besides pity from me.

  At that point, I was in the middle of renovations, too. I couldn’t bring a woman back to a construction zone and explain that yes, I’m building this for a woman I want to worship and adore, but no, that’s definitely not you.

  So I let construction take over my time. I spent mornings working with the horses, afternoons on the house, and the evenings on the computer, researching design and floor plans. I wanted this place to be a gift to the woman I love - a place I could give to her and share. A place we would hopefully be for decades together.

  And right this second, that woman could be here in my house. Callie’s cradling that dog against her, walking circles around the living room. She’s adorable with that thing. I’m more of a utilitarian when it comes to animals, but if that little roll of puppy fat makes her happy, then that was purpose enough for me.

  “Do you need any help?” her sweet southern voice interrupts my thoughts. I’ve barely moved since she wandered off.

  “No, you sit. I’ll get something going.” I tell her, gesturing to the dining table. She sits, letting Cookie down to the floor. Callie sighs, crossing her legs and arching her brow.

  “What’s that look for?” I ask, charmed by her all over again.

  “I’m just ready to see what a mountain man can cook, especially in this big, fancy kitchen.” She’s teasing me now. Where did this sass come from? If it hadn’t been for dodging my kiss earlier, I’d go pick her up and lay her across that table right this second.

  “Ah, I’m sure miss southern belle has a few tricks up her sleeve,” I tease back. She purses her lips, obviously trying to hold back a giggle.

  “I might just have to show you,” she quips as she rises off that chair. I’ll miss that view of that long thigh crossed over the over, giving me the tiniest peek of the curve of her ass. But having her closer is even better. “I can’t let good, southern cuisine be questioned without a fight. What are my options around here?”

  I can’t believe she took the bait. After that stuff about her mom earlier, I expected her to let me handle all the food. But it seems like my teasing did more than I expected. She seems excited to be in the kitchen again. Maybe she just needed a push.

  Callie is deep in the fridge, pushing bottles around, reading labels. I can see her brain working, so I leave her alone. She pulls out eggs, milk, hot sauce, chopped garlic, and an armful of other things. None of that combination makes sense, but I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.

  I take a seat at the island, leaving the kitchen side open to her. She starts asking me questions: where’s your oil, how hot do your burners run, do you have a frying thermometer. I answer without more questions of my own. She knows what she’s doing in a kitchen.

  “Do you want a drink while you work? I’ve got whiskey, maybe some vodka. I think I have some wine around here, too… I can make you whatever you-”

  “Whiskey. Please. No wine.” she answers quickly, arms full from the pantry now. At least she knows what she wants.

  I make us matching cocktails - I’m a whiskey man myself. I slide her glass across the counter to her and see her eye it. She makes no move to touch it.

  I watch her go and stay silent. Callie starts mixing things, pulling out chicken from the fridge and potatoes from the pantry. She’s in the zone and I get a feeling in my gut I haven’t felt before: attraction. Not the raw, hot sexual attraction, even though she’s already hit that mark for me. It’s a warm, comforting attraction. Like I could be happy to get up, come around behind her, kiss her and let her be. And that would be enough. Her presence here, quiet and busy, feels like it’s exactly what I need.

  I, too, zone out watching Callie. Her lithe fingers chop and stir, making every move seem simple. Her black jeans have smears of flour across them and one obvious handprint across her ass. I wish I could claim that one, but it’s all her.

  She’s put her hair up in a bun on top of her head. Chunks of wavy, glossy hair has fallen out around her face. I get the urge to reach out across the counter and push them behind her ear. Fuck, it’s like I’m a schoolboy again.

  A half hour goes by before she touches her drink. It’s one small sip, hardly moving the line of liquid on the side of the glass.

  “Can I do anything? I feel weird watching a guest do everything in my house,” I offer. She looks up at me, almost as if this is the first time she’s seen me in the last few minutes.

  “Oh. Of course. Can you peel these potatoes?” She points to a pile in front of her.

  I nod, getting up to join her. I know it’s stupid, but I make no move to get out of her way. I’m actually inches from her side, where she’s mixing multiple bowls of seasonings, butter, eggs and milk.

  “So what is all this gonna be?” I ask, hoping to pull her back to earth with me. She’s right at my elbow now, brushing against me as she stirs.

  “You’ll see,” she smiles playfully. It’s all I can do to not pull her into a kiss right here.

  “Do you have tea?” she asks. It throws me off guard, but I get out the directions to where it is in the pantry.

  “Good, good. I can’t have a good Texas meal served without some sweet tea,” she informs me. She’s grinning now, happy. It gives me that warm glow in my chest again. This woman, I think to myself, could be the real deal.

  She busies herself again, not talking again for a while. She pushes me back to my seat across the island and I take my cue. Another half hour goes by as I nurse my whiskey and watch this gorgeous woman in my house. As if her cute ass bouncing around my kitchen isn’t enough - the smells are enough to make a man fall in love, too.

  Callie gets out two plates, which I’m assuming means we’re about to eat. It’s almost dark outside, so dinner is just in time.

  She pulls out golden, crispy pieces of fried chicken and piles them on my plate. Then goes a mound of mashed potatoes, with little chunks of butter still visible in the pillows of potato. She slides several pieces of asparagus onto the plate, with a buttery-garlic sauce coating them. Finally, she takes a bowl of a thick sauce and lets it glaze the chicken and tops it with crushed pecans.

  “This might be the best meal that’s ever been made in this kitchen,” I tell her, happy to see her smiling proudly about the food. She slides the plate over to me and passes me a knife and fork.

  I take a bite and groan. Holy fuck. This is insanely good. “What is this stuff?”

  “Well, it’s got a stupid name, b
ut it’s just fried chicken with honey and hot sauce,” she smiles. I could get used to that little smirk.

  “What’s it called?”

  “It’s really dumb…” she giggles. My eyebrows go up, waiting.

  “It’s called ‘Man-Catching Chicken’,” she gets out, blushing. “The whole story is that if you want a man in the south, you make him this chicken and there’s no way he wouldn’t want to marry you.” She explains, trying hard to not make eye contact. “But… well… you had all the stuff for it and I thought it would yummy. I’m not trying to...well… ugh, you know.”